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THE 



DWARF. 



:3U 



THE DWARF, 



A DRAMATIC POEM. 



BY JAMES REES, 



AUTHOR OF " THE WANDERER, " BATTLE OF SARATOGA, ETC. ETC. 



NEW YORK : 
F. SAUNDERS, 357 BROADWAY, 



MDCCCXXXIX. 



x%-^ 



t1». 



n^^ 



Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1839, by 

F. SAUNDERS, 

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, 

for the Southern District of New York. 



CRAIGHEAD & ALLEN, PRINTERS, 
No. 112 rulton-street, New York. 



TO HIM, 

WHOSE TALENTS ARE SCRPASSED ONLY BY HIS MODESTY, 
AND WHOSE EFFORTS IN BEHALF OP 

THE AUTHORS OF GREAT BRITAIN 

HAVE WON FOR HIM 
THE GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION OF HIS COUNTRYMEN, 



AUTHOR OF " ION," 

THIS POEM IS DEDICATED, 
BY ONE WHO IS PROUD TO LAY HIS HUMBLE TRIBUTE AT THE 

SHRINE OF GENIUS. 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



The principal part of this poem was written in Eng- 
land, in the summer of 1838, and it was not until the 
fall of last year that the author had either leisure or dis- 
position to complete it. Many imperfections will be 
perceived, and most probably, also, pointed out. In its 
publication, he has consulted as much his own pleasure, 
as the wish of several friends, and he is not even in- 
clined to implore the generosity of criticism. Among 
several gentlemen to whom the manuscript of the poem 
was submitted, some few objected to the character of 
The Dwarf Although it is hoped, for the sake of 
human nature, that few such distorted minds blot the fair 
fields of creation, yet the author presumes that the 
character he has sketched can scarcely be deemed un- 
natural. Those who are surrounded with the happy 
household band, and the thousand endearments of domes- 
tic felicity, will scarcely appreciate the effect produced 
by a consciousness of injury on the sensitive mind — the 
withering bitterness, that mantling ever around the heart, 
poisons the flowers of kindness which would often flour- 
ish there, and gnaws like a viper on the homeless spirit. 



Still less can they estimate the effect produced by a re- 
tuiTiing memory of happier days, and a softening of the 
heart, that, " dry as summer's dust," burnt to the socket, 
and a concentration of social feelings and refined 
thoughts, over which the mantle of love is cast, on a 
spirit worn and desolate, and a hope for the first time, 
" like lightning in a cloud, gleams hovering, ere it vanish," 
on the awakened soul. He, who held converse with na- 
ture's wildest scenes, and felt happiness only in the 
miseries of others, would natui-ally be prepared for any 
action which desperation might point out, in the ferocity 
of his despair. So much for the hero. Of the other 
characters, it is unnecessary to speak. The reader who 
expects to find a finished performance in this poem, will 
be disappointed. It is but the produce of a labor, in 
which the author has amused himself, and he can only 
wish that the same entertainment may be conveyed to 
his readers. 

New York, May, 1839. 



THE DWARF. 



SCENE I. 



[A Cottagetfrom which Henrici comes forth, and gazes on 
the scene. Landscape, moonlight^] 

HENRICI. 

Yes, 'tis the same, 
And all things wear their old familiar forms 
To welcome me again. Yon moon sails on 
Through her broad plains of azure — yonder stars, • 
Which seem companions of my boyish days. 
They shine on, — still unchanged. — Yon giant form 
Of the broad mountain, on whose peaked top 
My feet have trodden, nimble as the deer, 
With a heart light as floating sunbeam — now 
Darkness has clothed it; and why need I view 
Its form more plain than now, for memory 
Hath painted on my mind the outlined shapes 
Of every object that old fancy wove 
Around its heart strings : — There is not a flower 
That bloomed, when last I gazed upon this scene, 
But I have thought of — and a thousand times 
Have nursed in storms, or gathered from its bed 
In fancy : — and I tread again these scenes ; 
1 



2 THEDWARP. '[scene I. 

These early forms, whicli infancy hath loved, 

Are now around me ; and yon lucid stream, 

How the moon plays upon her rippling waves, 

Which dance like things of light. How oft I've dashed 

Headlong from yonder height to its calm bed, 

And swam its cooling waters, till even play 

Hath brought its weariness unto my heart. 

They saw me go forth from them to the land 

Of bitterness and shame. No ! not of shame ; 

The tyrants could not brand my name with shame, 

Unless the foul lie of the rankling heart 

Had once been uttered ; but the miscreants knew, 

That purple robes in vain had played with wrath. 

Such as boiled upwards from my festered soul. 

And here I stand, ye changeless forms, that wear 

The old familiar aspect which ye bore 

When I, a stripling boy, trampled and lone, 

Was thrust forth from the land which gave me birth, 

To bitter exile. Once again I view ye ; 

I feel the balmy breeze sweep o'er your fields 

Like notes of music to a weary souL 

And one thought more — Eugenia — should she live. 

And live to love me still. Oh, I can smile 

On fate and its black pageantry, and walk 

My quiet road to death. Eugenia false ! 

It cannot be. I've fed my soul in darkness. 

In bitter sorrow, in the hour of madness. 

When teai's were prayed for, but they would not come 

To ease the. burning brain: Alone I've sat 

In my strange home, and turned my eyes to Venice ; 

Have thought of the foul wrongs I've borne ; have called 



scene; II.] THE DWARF, 

Black vengeance with its spectres round my heart : 

One star alone hath lighted up the gloom, 

And chased the clouds away. It was the thought 

Of thee, Eugenia ! — of thy love — the first 

Deep passion of ray soul ; thoughts rolled around me 

Like stars in the broad universe — a realm 

Of bright and beauteous things. — Perhaps she looks 

On yonder moon — It is a lover's task, 

A foolish one ; — and yet not so — for love 

Flies, borne on angel-wing, to claim its hour 

In the deep cavern of the heart — to ask 

Its heritage of thought, for absent friends, 

And o'er the purest feelings of the soul 

To shed remembrance. — In my absent days, 

Could she forget the evening walks we ti'od, 

And spoke of pleasant fancies ; and there wove 

Dreams from the o'er charged heart, which melted as 

They came — in shadows ; — golden hours, that ouce 

Felt in the heart, become a part of life. 

The night air chills me — once again to rest. 



SCENE II.. 

[ IVie inside of the Inn in the former scene ; Henrici is 
seated before a Jire, reading.^ 

Enter Paoli and Bartholo. 

PAOLI. 

Come, bustle ! hunchback. 



4 THEDWARF. [sCENE H. 

BARTHOLO. 

Who made us, Count, to differ ] 

PAOLI. 

Out ! incubus ! thou hideous monster — out ! 
Dost dare insult thy master, who has borne 
Thy cross grained temper — let thy passion run 
Its sordid course — has treated thee with kindness, 
And borne thy uncurbed tongue. 

BARTHOLO. 

Yes, such kindness 
As man would show the crush'd and writhing worm, 
To pass it by — not tread its life out — but 
Reserve it for new tortures. Dost thou think, 
When thou dost pour thy pitiful abuse 
On my scorned form, and on my stinted growth. 
That thou dost mock the common God who made 
All mortal things. And hast thou, when thou'st trod 
On some young serpent, and affrighted fled, 
Leaving the viper living — hast thou dreamed 
It might live on to sting thee ? 

PAOLI. 

What dost thou mean ] 

BARTHOLO. 

No matter; 
It is our province. Count, to speak in riddles. 
The common herd have deemed misshapen dwarfs 
Hold commune with the secrets of the future, 
And can unfold the coming mysteries 
Of life, with all its sorrows. 



SCENE II,] THE DWARF. 5 

PAOLI. 

Have they indeed that power 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Ha ! ha ! what matters if they have. 
Think'st thou that secret should be wrung from them 
By taunts and bitter gibes. No ! not with racks, 
Though their misshapen limbs, a formless mass. 
Should from the torture-wheel be cast, or death 
Should stare them hourly in the face ; not one, 
Not one slight breath, should whisper aught, unless 
To curse the foul betrayers of their right. 

PAOLI. 

Dog ! misshapen in thy mind as in thy body. 
Threaten me not with thy unguarded words, 
Or hold thy life but brief. 

BAllTHOLO. 

My life I care not for ; [ness^ 

I have watched thee long, — have tended thee in sick- 
Have aided in thy bold intrigues ; nor beats 
The pulse within thee, would not quicken at 
The baseborn lie, if thou could'st say I e'er 
Proved false to thee. 

PAOLI. 

Thou hast not ; 
So let the past be now forgotten. Bear 
Thy load within the house ! I'll wait thee here ! 

(As Bartholo leaves the room, he points to Henrici.) 

We are companions for the night, it seems, 
1* 



6 THE DWARF. [sCENE 11. 

Good sir ! and I shall thank my stars, whate'er 
The peril I have past, if chance should grant me 
The favor of a friend. 

HENRici. (gloomily.) 

Is friendship then so scarce, 
Are vows so hollow ? Are the memories 
Of pleasant times so faintly graven on 
The hearts of men, that one like thee shouldst seek 
A friend beneath a humble roof like this 1 

PAOLI. 

Thou hast rightly said ; 
Friendship is but a mask the wearer borrows. 
And throws aside when his deceit 's complete ; 
Yet are there many proud to bear the name 
Of friend to Paoli. 

HENRICI. 

To bear the name ! yes, even as thousands bear it 
In name alone ; as every beggar craves 
The cast off garments, which were yours to day. 
Meet him to-morrow, and the common robe 
Which charity had thus bestowed, would scarce 
Seem wide enough, to bear the pride beneath. 
It is a mask ! whose often tinsel'd look 
Beguiles the gazer ! till, deluded, cheated, 
He weeps his folly, and with shame retires 
To mock its very name. 

PAOLI. 

Thou speak'st of it 



SCENE 11.] THE DWARF. ' 

As though thou wcrt thyself a victim to 

Its false and faithless name. — Thou art poor 1 

HENRici. (passionately.) 
Count, seek not thou to pry into my secrets. 
I spoke to thee as man might speak to man, 
On common topics ; but there is a place, 
A secret place, within the bosom, where 
No stranger may intrude. The tale was told 
Here ; in this pale and grief worn form I bear, 
These tatter'd rags, scarce worth a beggar's notice. 
This humble roof, where I had deemed myself 
Secure from all intrusion, and this spot. 
Lonely and desolate ; the words I spoke. 
Of friends proved treacherous, — of familiar forms 
Of grief that haunt my life — this wasted body. 
On which the winds have played, till youth and health 
Shrunk up with fell disease — this eye lit up 
With something more than fever, and this brain. 
This o'erwrought maddening brain, had told my story, 
Without one uttered sound. 

PAOLI. 

I feel for thee, and pity thee j 
Accept this trifling offer. 

HENRICI. 

I neither asked thee for 
Thy pity or thy money ; — for the first, 
I thank thee — though it is a common coin 
That every passing beggar earns ; and for 
The last — Count, I have never asked a boon 



8 THEDWARF. [sCENE 11. 

Of mortal man — of those who should have given me, 
And given mine own. When glaring want gazed forth 
From my swoll'n eyes, and hunger ravag'd on 
My entrails, and my heart was bursting — true, 
The thought has come upon me — But I would 
Have died, died as a dog dies, at their gate. 
Or cut my fever-whitened tongue from out 
Its place, — or e'er I'd crave a single boon 
Of my most foul destroyers. 

PAOLI.. 

Thou dost seem 

To have borne wrong on wrong ; but wherefore now 

Refuse the offer of a friend — a loan, 

A common loan — a trifle — speak not of it. 

(Exit.) 



And shall I take it. 

Oh, poverty ! thy greedy fingers clutch 

Each straw of hope, and busy famine leaps 

On all that bears the semblance of relief. 

A loan ! he said a loan ; and may I not 

Yet live to pay it back — pay it threefold. 

'Twill bear me through my journey — it will clothe 

This ruin'd body with a better garment. 

I would not meet Eugenia as a beggar ! 

Did crimson'd rank, and haughty nobles, know 

The suffering of one little night of wo, 

How would they shudder. I have grown quite calm 

With all ; the canopy of heaven hath been 

My covering, and the moistened earth my bed. 



SCENE II.] THE DWARF. 

Yes — 'tis a loan — 'twill buy — 'tis all I ask, 
Vengeance on Venice, and a wanderer's tomb. 
He will return anon. What busy devil 
Plays with me thus 1 I feel a glow of shame 
Play o'er my countenance, to be — a beggar ! 
Will it not wipe a thousand wrongs away, 
Whose memories haunt me like a spectre form 
Rising from out its grave. — Will it not give me 
One hour to gaze on Venice and her towers, 
Her beauteous moonlight, and the parted wave, 
As sweeps the gondola ; — to tread her terraces, 
And dream again the visions of my childhood ; 
To smite down my oppressors in their blood. 
Blood ! Blood ! Who spoke of blood ] 

I 'm dreaming, dreaming. 

Enter Bertrand and Paoli. 
PAOLi. (To Bertrand.) 
And can he not be found 1 

BERTRAND. 

Alas, no human being knows his haunt — 

His home I would have said, but exiles have none. 

HENRici. (Aside.) 
They have none, save their last, long, dreamless one. 

PAOLI. 

Stranger, one word with thee ; thou'lt not betray us ; 
I see an honest bond writ on thy face. 
Then listen. Venice, trampled down by tyrants 
Endures their curse no longer. The great " Ten," 



10 THEDWARF. [SCENE U, 

The boasting " Forty," and their dread tribunal, 
Whose secrets heaven and earth alone can know, 
Must be abolished ; — henceforth, from the people, 
Must emanate the powers that rule them. All 
Is ready — bands are marshalled — at a signal, 
They fly to arms, and to redress their wrongs. [thee 

Speak ! thou dost seem to have suffered wrongs that make 
Fit subject for a deed like this ; — at once — decide — 
"Wilt thou strike with us, for the liberty 
Of Venice 1 



(Overcome with strong emotion^ after a pause, passion- 
ately.) 

Your hand, Count — there's your gold ; 

You knew I had been wronged, you knew the sting 

Was rankling in my soul ; you look'd upon 

The famish'd wretch before you, poor in all things 

Save honor ; — on these tatter'd rags you gazed ; 

You thought he might be bought. Was it for this 

You scattered here your gold. Could I have dream'd it. 

This thought of my dishonor, I had worn 

This sword not wholly as a play thing. Count, 

Go to the bed of penury and want, 

And see the pallid offspring of a suffering, 

Too bitter for endurance — breathe its last ; 

And, 'mid the stifled sobs a father heaves, 

And the fond mother's silent grief — then tempt them 

With sordid gold to sin ; — or seek ye out 

Some thing who never knew what honor was — 

The tool of proud ones — the fond sycophant. 



Scene 11. J the dwarf. 11 

Who bears no love to country, and whose soul 
Is too degraded to endure a thought 
So noble. Give him your gold, and buy him ; 
Secure him for thy office — bribe him — then 
Bring him to me, and I will tread on him. 

PAOLI. 

This is mere madness. Bcrtrand, could we find 
This exiled Count thou speak'st of; he is brave 
And noble — has endured foul wrongs, thou say'st. 

BERTRAND. 

The foulest could be borne. Though noble born, 
One of the council of " the Ten " dared strike him ; 
He wiped out the dishonor with his sword. 
And for this act, the Senate banished him, 
And made his lands a forfeit. 



But heard they never of him — did he not 
Return ] 

BERTRAND. 

Once — but 'tis six long years ago ; - - he loved 

A being most surpassing fair ; to her, 

Disguised, he came. The Senate's watchful spies 

Spoiled the short hour, snatched out from years of wo ; 

He fled once more for life. His enemies, 

The slaves, who fed upon his bounty — who. 

Bones, blood, and muscle, should have fought and died 

To win their lord — with their vile tongues traduced 

him. 
I dared a Senate's hostile frown, and more, 



12 THEDWARP. [scene It. 

Endured their threats, whilst I defended him. 
Count Manuel 

HENRici. ( WitJi energy.) 
Is here, and on his road to vengeance, Bertrand. 

BERTRAND. 

Thou — false — and yet it is so ; can it be ? 
Or art thou from the tomb a visitant. 
To scai'e us with thy presence ; and those tones, 
Those sunken eyes, that solemn look, that brow 
No longer beaming with the light of youth — 
Is it then all that's left of Manuel. 

HENRICI. 

Save his firm friendship for thee, Bertrand, time 
Could never change ; here let us weep together. 

[ Tliey embrace, 

PAOLI. 

Mysterious man ! I deemed that more than seemed 
Beneath those tattered robes, was thine. 



Count ! pardon my hasty words ; they were 
Not fit return for kindness. If I wrong'd thee. 
In deeming thou wouldst buy me to thy treason, 
I ask fortliy forgiveness ; — but, unbought, 
I'm yours for ever. Dost thou see this dagger; 
I have sworn by my immortal hopes, to shed 
The blood of those who brought me to this pass, 
And wipe my wrongs out with a deed of justice. 
The rock from its fast rest in the deep waves, 



SCENE II.J THE DWAUF. 13 

Or the mailed oak, is torn from out their beds, 
Sooner than I change purpose. Hour and place — 
I meet you. Let the outlaw perish — if 
He dies revenged, he'll smile at death, and greet him. 

PAOLI. 

Welcome, thrice welcome, to our holy cause. 

BERTRAND. 

Our hands are joined — now parted ; Avhen we meet, 
Let them be color'd with the blood of Venice. 

HENRICr. 

Eternal God ! I thank thee for this hour 

Of vengeance. — Come — I would hear your plans. 

[Exeunt. 

(Barlholo steals cautiously in at tTie door loliich faces the 
one through xohich they pass.) 

BARTHOLO. 

Ay ! there they go, like sheep to their destruction. 
They little deem how near the traitor stood 
That shall spoil all. I, the deform'd, the mad, 
Misshapen dwarf, shall sting and laugh at them. 
Their ribald jests, their sneers and buffets, are 
Nursed up in vengeance. Oh, 'tis sweet to turn 
On the oppressor. — I have roamed at night, 
And watched the blue soft moonlight, and have asked 
The question of the calm and sleeping waters ; 
In my fierce moods of madness, I have trod 
Under tlie yawning crags of precipices, 
And asked the overhanging rocks to fall 
2 



14 THEDAVARF. [sCENE II. 

And dash me to a thousand formless atoms ; 

I have shrieked hoarsely mid the thunder roll, 

And crash of blasted trunks ; have v^alked the shore, 

Where, on whose pebbly beach the rolling wave 

Makes everlasting music ; I have sought 

Death in each plant where poison dwelt, and fled 

Affrighted from its aspect. Why 1 oh why 1 

Drank I of life from the maternal stream ; 

Why slept I not, unwakened and unborn, 

In the eternal sleep of uncreated things, 

Unnoticed and unknown. These shapeless limbs 

Encase a feeling heart. — How the fool man 

Would laugh to hear the dwarf, misshapen dog. 

The hunchback, talk of love — and yet I love. 

And love so deeply, that the passion must 

Be life or death to me. Count Paoli, 

Who trusts me like a fool, is hers — her choice — 

Spite of the rumors that have flown abroad 

Of one fair bride, who died too suddenly. 

No matter, she must ne'er be his. Oh Beatrice, 

Thou dost not deem that cased within this breast 

A heart in maddest passion beats for thee. 

They talk of marriage ! — I must spoil the plot — 

Denounce these bold conspirators. The head 

Of Count Paoli must the forfeit pay 

To this exalted Senate — and the Dwarf 

Claims Beatrice alone. Ha! ha! the dwai-f ! 

{Exit.) 



SCENE III.l THEDWARP. 15 



SCENE III. 

(A Room — Beatrice is discovered seated; Eugenia is 
gazing from the window.) 

BEATRICE. 

Dost thou see nothing then % 

EUGENIA. 

Nought save the everlasting stars, w^hicli wear 
A brighter aspect, and the deep blue sky, 
With her light clouds, fleecy as hope's soft gleams, 
And changing full as oft — and the deep shade 
Flung o'er the living landscape, and the pale 
And playing moonlight on the stirless lake 
Borne in its sti'eam of light. 

BEATRICE. 

Dost thou not hear % 
A distant horn 1 a tramp of steeds % a voice \ 

EUGENIA. 

I hear nought, save the still and solemn w^hisper 
Of the hushed breeze hold converse with the leaves, 
And breathe like tales of crime. I hear the noise 
Of rustling branches, stirred with its soft breath, 
And the long branches of the willow dash 
In the soft waters of the lake. — I see 
All that should make night beautiful, and hear 
All that sliould make night music, save the sound 
Thine ear so vainly courts. 



16 THEDWARF. [SCENE III. 

BEATRICE. 

Not vainly! on tbose little words theie hang 

Ages of mystery — long years of pain ; 

The hearts mysterious yearnings — the crush'd fount 

Of withered love — the nourish'd thoughts that make 

The vital air of viitue — hoarded hopes, 

That make the pulse beat quicker, and the blood 

Course fleeter to its fountain, — all that makes 

The sunshine of a happy youth, and spreads 

Joy like a summer sky, unclouded o'er 

The heart's rich fondness — vov^s that have been heard 

By those bright quenchless orbs, that azure sky 

And that pale moon, and registered in heaven 

To bless or curse us — oaths from one to seal 

The compact hearts had made — virtue approved, 

And heaven had smiled on, — every sound that brings 

Certain success, or fell despair, draws near 

The destiny that seals my doom. 

EUGENIA. 

You talk like madness in its frenzied mood. 
Long toil, and weary watching, girl, hath made 
Thy brain ache with its weariness. 

BEATRICE. 

No! No! Eugenia. Hast thou ever watched 

Those myriad orbs that gem yon azure field. 

And viewed their mystic movements ; hast thou e'er 

Chosen some favorite star to rule thy fate, 

And felt its movements as a solemn voice 

Spoken to thee. It is a little word 

To say we love — but on that feeble sound 



SCENE III.] THE DWARF. 17 

A woman Inilkls her hope — her soul, her all, 

Feeds on its memory ; like a sun it gilds 

The landscape of her thoughts, — dries up the tear 

Which sadness clusters in the eye, and pours 

Joy and contentment to the thousand streams 

Of the heart's fountain ; if those streams be stayed, 

And if her hope be broken — if her soul. 

And its quick sympathies, be crush'd, — her all 

Shivered and blasted by the breath of fate, — 

And if that vow breathed solemnly, believed 

As firmly, should be changed into a lie — 

What hath she left ] her heritage of shame — 

A broken heart, and vengeance. But I talk 

Thus idly — Thou hast never loved, perchance. 

EUGENIA. 

1 have ; 
I too have felt its beams diffusing o'er 
The soul a new existence ; I have known 
What 'tis to lean upon another's faith, 
Repose on spoken vows, — to tread the walk 
At even tide where distance seemed to fly. 
And pleasant fancies and old thoughts have shrunk 
Days to the narrow compass of an hour ; 
I, too, with thee, have communed with the thoughts 
Of other hearts, have felt its cordage thrill 
Touched with a master spirit, till the notes 
Responsive found its echo, and deep thoughts, 
Which I had deem'd low buried in my soul, 
Flashed forth in words ; — and as o'er stilless lakes 
The image of the glittering orbs are seen 
2* 



18 THEDWARP. [scene III. 

In their bright beauty, so within the depths 
Of our yet lucid souls, each found the form 
We loved the best reflected there in glory. 

BEATRICE. 

Say'st thou that thou hast loved, 
That thou hast felt enchantments strange and new 
Astir within thee '? Where is he who touched 
Thy virgin heart's first calmness, and awoke 
Its thought to sense of transport ] 

EUGENIA. 

O, ask me not — it wakes 
Strings in my soul that should be slumbering now ; 
It holds a mirror to my thought, which shows 
A fearful image there. 

BEATRICE. 

So should it not be fearful, 
Unless it be of crime. 

EUGENIA, 

No ! not of crime ; 
I could have borne to look upon the glass 
With its full image ; torture then had struck 
My soul to cold insensibility. 
But to look thus upon its shattered parts, 
Its every fragment blasts me with the sight 
Of my own sorrow and my shame. 

BEATRICE. 

Shame ! say'st thou shame 1 

EUGENIA. 

Yes, 'tis a tale of shame 



SCENE III.] THE DWARF. 19 

To pliglit the faith, to swear the solemn vow, 
To give all that is woman's own to give — the oalh 
That binds for life, that links us to our grave ; 
To smile, when sadness gnaws the heart ; to mask 
The truer feelings, and to play the hypocrite 
To one we cannot love — yes, 'tis of shame. 

BEATRICE. 

O, thou hast never loved, 
Hast never known what woman's love was worth. 
Fame, fortune, station, home — nay, life itself, 
Becomes the offering ; and as widow'd faith 
Binds its own living body to the corpse 
Of one she loved, so woman's faith is tied 
To even the memory of the man she held 
Most sacred in her heart. In life or death, 
In sadness, sickness, persecution, shame, 
A woman's love is wedded to its lord, 
And never knows divorcement. 

EUGENIA, 

Alas, what could I do ? 
They told me of his death, his exiled name — the power 
Of parents, with their tyranny, broke on 
My hours of peace. They bade me think of rank, 
Of almost regal station — of the voice 
Of worshippers obedient to my beck — 
Of riches — of all wants supplied — the gloom 
Of the low convent vault, my only choice, 
Refusing theirs. I could not, dared not think, 
My soul was buried in the tomb of Manuel ; 
They drove me to despair — one choice there was. 
Marriage or madness. ■ 



20 THE DWARF. [sCENE III. 

BEATRICE. 

And thou didst choose to live ] 
Alas, poor girl, what's life without the love 
That made life worth the wish ] Oh, hadst thou loved 
As I have loved — do love — the bleakest grave 
O'er which the night winds whistle, sleeping calm 
With my first vows unbroken, faith unchanged, 
Were a bright palace to the gloom of life. 
Living on so, — with soitow 

EUGENIA. 

The grave ! the grave ! 
It is a bed of rest ; would I were there. 

BEATRICE. 

My brain grows dizzy; look, Eugenia, look. 
That star — my star — the orb that rules my fate, 
Is clouded — then there's danger near to me. 
Danger 1 It may be death. 

EUGENIA. 

It may be blighted love. 

BEATRICE. 

Then is it vengeance ! — my Italian blood 
Brooks not the thoughtless tyranny of man. 
Who tramples on the sacred thoughts of hearts 
Too fond and too devoted ; — I have changed 
With him my voice — if he deceives, he dies ! 

EUGENIA. 

It is a fearful thought. 

BEATRICE. 

I shall die with him too ; 



SCENE III.] THE DWARF. 21 

The victim and the oppressor both will find 
A common rest in death. 'Tis but a stride, 
Where we should take a step — a leap, where we 
Should tread most slowly. To the common earth 
Alike all mortals tend ; and wouldst thou have me 
Live on, and see my murderer smile and smile, 
As if no bitter memory could tug 
At his hard heart strings ; hear him breathe his vows, 
As false as those he hath broken — smile those smiles 
Which should be mine alone, and speak in looks 
Unto another, mindless of the thin 
And wasted form that pines its way to death. 
Should he, or shall he, tread triumphant midst 
The broken fragments of my perished joys 1 
No ! when the happiness that made life sweet 
Is vanished, farewell life ! — I fall — but not 
Alone. No, never ! never ! 

EUGENIA. 

Hark ! I hear footsteps ; dry those tears, my Beatrice, 
It is my husband comes. 

BEATRICE. 

Thy husband ! wretched girl. 

EUGENIA. 

Hush ! not one word of our strange converse here. 
(Enter the Count Savelli.J 

SAVELLT. 

How fares our sweet Eugenia ; oh ! how rest 
Comes to the tired brain, such rest as breaks 
From thy sweet smiles, when hard and iron duty 
Hath worn the soul beyond endurance. 



22 THEDWARF. [sCENE III. 

BEATRICE, (with forced gay tty.) 
Have thy decisions, Count, thy noble " ten," 
Found victims by its thousands. I have heard 
The task w^as not a weary one to sentence 
The criminal to death ; 'tis very seldom 
That your tired senators can bear the form 
Which justice asks — a trial. They have found 
A speedier way to ease them of their tasks. 

SAVELLT. 

Thy jests are ever biting ; 
Pray heaven they lead thee not to danger, lady. 

BEATRICE. 

I have heard it said, 
Although T vouch not for its truth, that I 
Could boast a fair white neck. How well 'twould look 
Sever'd in twain, and bleeding, while your " ten," 
Your matchless " ten," stood by exultingly ! 

SAVELLI. 

It seems that beauty has a license to 

Mutter its treason ; many a life hath perished 

For less than thou hast uttered. 

EUGENIA. 

'Tis true, 'tis very true. 

SAVELLI. 

What meanest thou, Eugenia ! 'twas thy wont 
To keep a silent tongue on State affairs. 

EUGENIA. 

Mean ! nothing ! 'twas a sudden startling thought j 
Remembrance of a tale that I had heard 



SCENE III.] TUB DWARF. 23 

My parents tell, of one who insult brook'd not ; 
Struck by a Senator, one of the " ten ;" 
He nobly did revenge himself; his 'state 
Was forfeited — sentenced to exile — in 
That loneliness he died. 

SAVELLI. 

Aye, there were many such : Caravaja, 
Camillo, and Bertuchio ; and one more, 
The traitor Manuel. 

EUGENIA, [passionately.) 
Count Manuel was no traitor. 

SAVELLI. 

What means this strange excitement — thou art pale, 
Thy senses leave thee. Speak ! Eugenia ! speak ! 

EUGENIA. 

'Tis nothing — I am well again — quite well, 
You see ! I laugh — 'twas nothing. 

(She faints.) 

BEATRICE. 

She faints ! soft ! bear her to the air — some thought, 
Some childish thought. 

SAVELLI. 

'Tis strange ; yet let me tend her, thou art called ; 
Thy page, the dwarf Bartholo, entered now 
The hall, as I came hither. 



24 T H E D W A R F . [sCENE III. 

W 

BEATRICE. 

Bartholo here ! 
Then the strange mystery of my fate must be 
Disclosed. O, Paoli, I dread to deem thee false. 
O ! who can know how bitter are the throbs 
Of nature, when the pleasant hours and tones 
Remembered play in beauty round the heart ; 
And when, most felt, they pass away for ever. 
Yet will I consummate the fearful act. 
Though all should perish. I have sworn that he 
Who dares profane the holy altar of 

My virgin faith, deceiving me, shall Ha ! 

Bartholo here 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Welcome, honor'd lady, 
The noblest and the best — 

BEATRICE. 

Enough ! enough ! we are alone — what news ? 

BARTHOLO. 

Lady, thou knowst that thou of all the world 
Art first within my heart — when thoughtless men 
Drove me to madd'ning frenzy, scorned the form 
Of the dwarf hunchback, laugh'd at nature's sport, 
And Avoke the bitter passions of my soul, 
Tortur'd to madness — at thy gate I sought 
A refuge — it was given me — from that hour 

BEATRICE, (iinpaiienUy.J 
Thy tale! Thy tale ! 



SCENE III.] THEDWARP. 25 

BAKTIIOLO. 

It doth import my talc — thou didst relieve me, 
Hast cared for me, hast cast an eye of pity. 
It was not that my shape was stint — or black 
Deformity did mock my eye, where'er 
I turned to view myself — I should not bear 
A human heart. O ! I remember well 
The early days of childhood, and the play 
O'er verdant fields gilded with sunshine — though 
A mother's love, ne'er made a part of life — 
She spurn'd the hunchbach — she, who should have cared 
Most of all others, tended him in sickness, 
Wept for his sorrows, should have clench'd the link 
Maternal love casts 'round its offspring, but 
She spurned me from her door — my mother's door ! 
O ! how I shudder to remember now 
How fleet as winged steed I climbed the hill, 
The old brown hill, from whence I viewed that home, 
Home now no longer — and the hunchback left 
All that he had to give, his curses on it ! 

BEATRICE. 

Thy tale is strange — thy mother 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Is dead — but perish'd with no hand of mine ; 
Her darling son, a cherished brother — one 
Who held the place in love which should have been 
The wretched dwarf's — madden'd with avarice 
And guilty passion, heated with the words 
Of warning which she gave him, struck her, 
3 



26 THEDWARP. [scene III. 

Struck her to earth, and wandered forth again, 
A heartless murderer. 

BEATRICE. 

Thy father ? 

BARTHOLO. 

Lives, or lives not — I care not. 
I, in ray maddest frenzy, curst the roof 
That sheltered me — the parents tliat should love me, 
And all their offspring — and that curse hath fallen 
Most heavily on one. 

BEATRICE. 

I heard not this before — thy tale is strange, 
And sad as strange ; — thou hast had cause for grief. 

BARTHOLO. 

Cause 1 — but I never wept ; 
I've borne the insults of a menial crew 
Till my heart throbbed, and my wild brain has rolled 
In frenzy — till my blood cours'd through my veins 
Like liquid fire ; — I've borne the thought of death — 
Rushed to the craggy height of the hard rock, 
Intent to dash myself to its firm base, 
And mingle with the waters at its feet. 
Shame, — despite, — cruelty — all have I borne, 
But would have died ere I had wept a tear. 
Alas ! why talk I thus ; — you fed me — clothed me — 
You were the only — yes, the only friend 
The wretched dwarf's sad heart had ever known ; 
And from that hour 1 swore by life eternal, 



SCENE III.] THE DWARF. 27 

By all that makes man happy, — with truth and love 
To serve thee to the death. 

BEATRICE. 

Proceed ! Proceed ! 

BARTHOLO. 

Thou hast given a task 
I would have died ere borne. 

BEATRICE. 

Is this thy gratitude 1 
My hope, my life, nay, all hangs on the issue. 

BARTHOLO. 

Pause, lady, say not so ; 
Bid me begone, and bear my secret on 
Till the dark grave shall silence all. 

BEATRICE. 

Let not the storm beat thus in startling flashes ; 
Pour out its blasting thunders, though it crush me. 
I'll bear it all Paoli ! 

BARTHOLO. 

Is false what ails thee, lady ? 

BEATRICE. 

Then heaven have mercy on him ! 

BARTHOLO. 

On him — hath he not wronged thee foully, lady ; 
Breathed falsehood in thine ear, with broken vows. 



28 THE DWARF. [sCENE in. 

BEATRICE. 

He hath ! he hath ! yet heaven have mercy on him ; 
The reckoning must be made — 

BARTHOLO. 

What mean- you, lady 1 

BEATRICE. 

Revenge ! go, let the dead in heart and virtue, 
Who gild their passions with the name of love 
Wronged — yet live on — gaze on its ruin'd shrine, 
And tread amid its trampled hopes, — to sigh 
Existence into sorrow, with pale cheek 
And sunken eye ; — 1 live for vengeance — aye, 
Before my faith was plighted ; — he shall die, 
But 

BARTHOLO. 

I wear a dagger — bid me use it then. 

BEATRICE. 

Never ! he falls not by the hired assassin's hand ; 
The deed must be a sacrifice without 
One shade of shame — yet hold ! what proof hast thou. 

BARTHOLO. 

Proof! thou mayst have eye proof this night within 
The dome of Saint Antonio. 

BEATRICE. 

Come hither to me, then ; I will disguise, 
And meet him — false and faithless ! 

(Exit. J 



SCENE IV.] THE DWARF. 29 

BARTHOLO. 

Amen ! she's mine ! at least, she'll never be 
The bride of Paoli ! this night he'll perish ; 
Her proud Italian blood will never brook 
Her rival's gleam — and I, the menial dwarf, 
Have done it — I, who bore his plotting message, 
And hatched the plot ; — and if he falls not here, 
His schemes on Venice to the Senators 
1 will disclose ; — I must displace all foes 
That cross my pathway ; — but 'tis time to rest ; 
I'll seek my couch — 'tis not to sleep — no rest 
Falls on my eye lids — self-accursed ! my doom 
Looks black, even through the brightness that my soul 
Hath lighted round my pathway. It is so. 

(Exit.) 



SCENE IV. 

\St. Mark's Chvrch dimly ligJited. Henrici enters cau- 
tiously.^ 

HENRICI. 

Ye solemn temples of the voiceless dead, 
I tread along your vaulted floors, nor catch 
A human tone — nouo^ht save the mocking echo 
Of my own footsteps. Silent are ye all. 
And undisturbed ye rest. The pen of glory 
Hath traced your virtues on the sculptur'd stone, 
Your monumental piles ; there sleeps Faliero ; 
Venice, his curse is on thee. Now I tread 
Beside his desolate altar, the warm blood 
3* 



30 THE DWARF. [sCENE IV. 

Turns icy in my veins. And shall her sons, 

The sons of Venice, daughter of the Isles, 

Protect their home in vain — is every arm 

Destined to fall, and evei'y heart to bleed 1 

O City of the waters ! thou art doomed, 

With patriot blood poured out for thee in vain. 

Shall justice keep her counsels in the dark 

Of midnight secresy, and mock the cry, 

That like the shriek of spirits warn her from 

Her coming doom 1 To-morrow — yes ! to-morrow. 

Ye sleeping spirits, whose eternal forms, 

Carved in the solemn marble, seem to watch 

O'er this polluted city — can ye not 

Speak to me ] If the roll of future deeds 

Be opened to you, can no breathing tone 

Speak out the secrets of the moirow. None 1 

And is this all to die 1 — to quench at once 

The busy passions of the soul — to cool 

The fever of the brain — to hush the heart, 

And its quick throb — to stay the ruddy tide. 

And all its quick pulsations — to repose 

As warriors in their glory — move not — speak not, 

With busy thought all ended. Is it so ] 

BERTRAND. (entering suddenly.) 

Manuel ! 
HENRici, (Noiv Count Manuel.) 

My name ! betrayed ! undone ! 
But vengeance yet rides on my sword. 'Tis thou ! 

BERTRAND, 

"What ails thee ? 



SCENE IV.] THE DWARF. 31 

MANUEL. 

I deemed the last was come — that I should fall, 
And unrevenged on this accursed Senate ! 
Bat now, my friend ! my more than friend, my brother ! 
Thou'stseen her — thou hast news of her; — speak out. 
Thy cheek is pale. Is it 1 Is it all past 1 
But no ! no ! no ! there's death in that sad thought. 
Bertrand, thou torturcst me — I'm almost stung 
To madness now — I scarcely bear to live — 
My soul is tension'd to a pitch, that thou 
Or I must ease it, or it breaks for ever. 
Give me a sign — a little word — a look. 
Madman, thou shak'st thy head, but speak'st not. 
Is she not living 1 

BERTRAND. 

She lives, but cannot love. 

MANUEL. 

Ha ! ha ! thou 'rt playing with me, Bertrand ; 'tis 
Not well, just now ; and yet thou didst it kindly ; 
It was to soothe my feelings; thou didst see 
I was not calm — but now thoul't tell me, Bertrand ; 
What said she to thee 1 

BERTRAND. 

Forgive her, and forget her ! 

MANUEL. 

I pray thee, friend, don't trifle with me — think 
Of my long exile — when the bleak winds blew, 
And the strong rain beat high — when sternly flashed 
The lurid lightning, and the heavens were bruised 
"With the loud thunder ; I have braved it all, 



32 THEDWARF. [SCENE IV. 

And in the deep shades of a neighboring wood, 

Have laid me down to think of her, my Bertrand ! 

Of her most faithful vows — of her sweet voice — 

That voice ! aye, sweet as strain of melting music — 

Fancy hath borne it o'er the howling blast, 

Of our old evening walks, when every step 

Spoke sweetness, and the mirror of the thought 

Reflected the soul's images, as clear 

As ever dancing moonlight o'er the wave, 

Wove her long train of brightness. Thou, my Bertrand, 

Thou ! thou hast never loved. Is it not so ? 

Thou think'st me fond and foolish — but Fm calm — 

Oh, 1 can bear it all. Come, Bertrand ! Come ! 

BERTRAND. 

Pressed by her parents to forget thee, she 
Still cherish'd thy remembrance, 'till despair 
Drove her almost to madness — then the tale 
Of her deceiver's spoke of thee as dead. 

MANUEL, [wildly.) 
Go on — Go on. 

BERTRAND. 

Wealth, rank, and riches, all were offered her. 
She scarcely had a choice — ask me no more, 
She is another's now. 

MANUEL. 

'Tis past — the cherish'd dream of my fond soul 
Is blighted, and I wake to darkness ; — all, 
All now of hope, and joy, and peace, is gone — 
I am indeed an outcast. 



SCENE IV.] T H E D W A R P . 33 

BERTRAND. 

Nay ! give not way to grief ; the dye is cast — 
Forget her ! 

MANUEL. 

Forget her 1 Never, Bertrand. Didst thou know 
How I have loved her ; how, for hours, we walked 
In the clear beauty of the evening air, 
With moonlight in its glory, and the forms 
Of the clear stars — all were forgotten, save 
The pure and holy breathings of our love. 
Why talk 1 thus 1 — 'tis past. 

BERTRAND. 

Why, these are foolish fancies. 

MANUEL. 

True ! true ! I had forgotten — give me leave 
To think awhile. Ha ! lest I should forget it, 
Bertrand ! wilt bear this ring to her 1 and say 
What thou hast seen 1 No — do not say I wept — 
I did not weep — I could not weep for her. 
And thou, my ever faithful friend, I have 
Nought left to give thee, save assurance true, 
That whenso'er I die, I die thy friend. 
The world's a weary blank, and they have made 
My life the darkest ; they have spoil'd my hope, 
Have drugg'd the cup of bitterness ! — but why — 
Why should I drink its dregs 1 

(Henrlci or Manuel attemjHs to stab liimscif ; tlie actionis 
perccivedby Bertrand, v:lio wrests the dagger from Mm.) 

BERTRAND. 

Madman, forbear ! what would'st thou do — wilt rush 



34 T n E D W A R F , [scene IV. 

All unprepared before the seat of Him 
Who is thy Maker 1 'Tis in bearing ill 
The noble soul is. shown. 

MANUEL. 

Thou'rt right ! thbu'rt right ! but wherefore should I 
live ? 

BERTRAND. 

Hast thou forgotten 1 vengeance ! 

MANUEL. 

True — most true ; there's blood to shed — ray soul 
Is tiger like — it thirsts — 'tis all that's left me. 
They were the cause — the shame. From them I bore 
My injuries first — 'Twill ease my soul to think 
Of what remains. Yes, liberty for Venice, 
And blood ! blood ! blood ! 

BERTEAND. 

Yet calm thyself awhile. 

MANUEL. 

Calm 1 am I not calm, Bertrand ; — hast thou seen 
The noble column, which has stamped the name 
Of glory on its builder, crumble down, 
And he look on unmoved 1 or hast thou seen 
The desecrated altars of our God 
Shorn of their costly splendor, and the priest 
Smile as they passed him by ] — Hast seen a man 
Laugh in the face of cruel death, or dance 
Around the narrow compass of his grave 1 
These might be calm — all these might smile — but I, 



SCENE IV.J THEDWARF. 35 

I have borne all that man could bear. I think 

My brain is worn indeed — for I do feel 

Thoughts ! bloody thoughts, that should reside within 

The secret cavern of the murderer's heart, 

Float o'er my fancy. Dost thou see that form, 

(xoildly.) 

There, on the doge's tomb. It laughs — it points 
To yonder grave — it triumphs ; sees't thou not, 
Bertrand ; it is a Senator of Venice ; 
Tyrant, thou diest ! my sword ! ha ! ha ! ha ! ha ! 

( Overcome with feeling, he falls in the arms of Bertrand^ 
recovering slowly.) 

Where am I ] this is — what ? St. Mark. I've dreamed 
That one I loved was false — no ! no ! no dream — 
It is the truth. Bertrand, thou'lt not betray me ; 
Thou'lt see her ; do not say I wept — I would 
Not have her think that I could weep a tear 
For her false heart. How fair she looked ! how true ! 
What matters 1 Bo were all who ever wore 
The angel form — in heaven they sinned — why weep 
A woman's treachery ? Softly — let me see ! 
Thy hand, my Bertrand, for my sight is dimmed. 
Which was the way we came — true ! yes ! quite true ! 
(Bertrand leads him out.) 



36 THEDWARP. [scene V. 



SCENE V. 

The Church of Saint Antonio. 
[BartJioIo, with Beatrice disguised as a page, enter, look 

cautiously around, and pass hehind a pillar?^ 
\Paoli, and a Venetian girl of humhle rank, cross the 

church in earnest conversation, and exit?[ 
BEATRICE, {comes fortoard, and watches them till they 
have passed.) 

It is too true — the dream is past ! — then now 
The shivered temple of my heart attest 
The ruin he hath wrought ! The vows he spoke 
Were idle words, and truth is changed tO' falsehood. 
Bartholo, lead me to his mansion — quick ! 
O ! I am sick at heart ! 

{Martuel enters disguised as a monk.) 

MANUEL. 

Ha ! I am not too late — the lights yet burn 
Around the holy altar — 'tis her wont 
To worship at the evening hour. One word 
To speak to her — to look on her — to tell her 
How shameless falsehood hath dishonor'd her ! 
They say she comes alone ! The rising moon 
Shines o'er these ruin'd walls ; how oft that orb 
Hath looked upon us, as those vows were changed, 
Which, registered in heaven, are broken now — 
To her eternal shame. She shall not know me ; 
I'll probe her soul, to see if yet remains 
One memory — one little thought — that o'er 



SCENE V.J T H E D W A R F . 37 

Her soul might shed a holy passion. Wedded ? 

She never knew, perchance can never know, 

The value of one honest heart that beats 

Alone for her. 'Tis not the pride of rank, 

The luxury of ease, that feeds the soul 

With virtue's essence — 'tis the soul that feels 

No mean dependence on another's aid. 

Is fittest to protect and shield the form 

That clings around its feelings. Aye, the bird 

That cleaves the air to gaze into the sun, 

The eaglet nursed in the luxurious bed 

Of the soft dove, would shrink befoi'e the orb, 

Which, nursed within its mother's nest, it faced. 

Alas ! fond man ! how little do we think 

That one devoted spirit bears more power 

To shield its loved one, than is found in rank, 

And all its purple panoply 1 the pride 

Of title — or the cloak that makes the crime 

Which would condemn the poor man — wear the name 

Of folly only to the ears of pride. 

{Eugenia enters and kneels at the altar.) 

'Tis she — almost unchanged ; and yet the shades 
Of grief hang on her brow. Perchance she prays 
For thee — thee, Manuel. No — 'twere crime for me — 
She weds a Senator ! And could the words 
Of those that did divorce thy heart from me. 
So change its noblest feelings — so benumb 
Thy soul's quick senses — as to love another, 
Ere plighted vows on which thy soul was staked 
Had been redeemed. 
4 



38 T H E D W A R P . [scene V. 

EUGENIA. 

Father ! thy blessing ! 

MANUEL, {Confused.) 

My blessing, child % ah, true, my blessing — yes ! 
May all good angels guard thee, as thy soul 
Hath walked the path of virtue and of truth. 
Hath ought intruded on thy pious thought, 
That bids thee seek the altar thus alone. 

EUGENrA. 

Nought, save a guilty crime — if it be crime — 
To think of one whom we have loved, though dead. 
While vows are plighted to another lord ? 

MANUEL. 

And hast thou thought of one 
So distant as thou sayst % so dead ] 

EUGENIA. 

I have ! I have ! 

MANUEL. 

And didst thou love him 1 

EUGENIA. 

Love him ! oh more than life — do love him still j 
Father, it may be guilt or shame — but I 
Possess no power to crush those feelings which 
Grew with me from my youth. 

MANUEL. 

And if thou lovd'st him, 
How art thou now another's ? 



SCENE v.] T II E D W A R F . 39 

EUGENIA. 

Ob, it were better far 
To have fed my soul on his most lonely ashes — 
To have cherisb'd memories of thoughts that grew 
Spontaneous in the spirit — than have brought 
A curse such as I bear — a broken heart, 
To wear my soul to death. 

MANUEL. 

And hast thou done this 1 

EUGENIA. 

Alas, what could I do 1 Friends ! parents ! all ! 
Press'd round me — not one friend was left, not one 
Whose tones could breathe of comfort. Father, 
Is it a crime, unwillingly committed 1 
No peace visits my humbled spirit — no relief 
Comes to my o'ercharged heart and maddened brain. 

MANUEL. 

Poor girl ! I could forgive thee all. 

EUGENIA. 

Thou, father ! yes, all mortal men might pardon, 
For all have human passion, and they know not 
Where guilt may huny them. I've prayed to heaven 
For pardon ! by my heart ! my conscience ! there 
Floated a self reproaching thought that stung 
Its powers to madness — 'twas remorse — the worm 
That dies not. All the vows I've breathed and broke, 
Haunt me like naked spectres — dance around 
The lonely grave of all my buried joys. 



40 T H E D W A R F . [sCENE V. 

MANUEL. 

Daughter, thou'st sinned 
In pledging thus thy faith, and, unredeemed, 
Given to another what was not thine own — 
In words — in breathed vows — which well thou know'st 
Thou couldst not have performed. Most wretched girl 5 

EUGENIA. 

Do not condemn me, father ; hear my tale. 
Oh ! thou hast never loved, or having loved. 
Heaven had not claimed thy duty wholly thus. 
Still thou art human ; there are chords that wind 
Around the heart, that will responsive beat 
To human faults, and it is woman's part 
To claim the greatest share of pity : weak, . 
Mad in her passions, and should be forgiven. 

MANUEL* 

Yes ! weakness is her failing, and if she 
Alone, of all the world, should feel its sorrows, 
It should be pitied, not condemned ; but hearts, 
Bold hearts and brave ones", hang upon her words, 
As madly as the drowning sailor grasps 
At the frail weed, when he should grasp the rock. 
So man hath left the surer, firmer road 
Of happiness found in himself — his powers, 
His thoughts, and feelings — to rely upon 
Poor changing woman's vows. When we bethink 
That lightest tone of voice, uttered, mayhap, 
In sport, or folly's buoyant mood, may sink 
Into the hearer's heart, and fed with hope, 
Grow to a serpent that shall sting him — then 



SCENE v.] T H E D W A R F . 41 

Those follies, and those frailties, lose the name 
Of failiniTs, and become a fearful crime. 



EUGENIA. 



There is no pity on the earth. Repentance, 
And many tears, should have atoned for guilt 
Committed once, and bearing in its train 
The misery of years. Father ! farewell ! 



Yet stay ; thou sayst thou still dost love, 
Though wedded to another. 

EUGENIA. 

Love ! it is the passion often earliest knov^ni — 
Alas ! the last forgot ; — Avhen yonder moon 
Beams o'er my grave, and unchecked, winds the breeze 
Over its green bed — when this maddening brain. 
This breaking heart, these fearful dreams are past — 
When life is ended, love may end; for love 
Makes part of life with me. 

MANUEL. 

And dost thou think, that were that person living, 
Thou couldst love him still. 

EUGENIA. 

Mercy ! my father ! thou hast opened up 
A fearful chasm to my aching view. 
That were a misery far too great. To bear 
The old familiar feelings of the heart, 
Which time, or care had deaden'd, starting forth 
In all their ancient freslmess, — and the fount 
4* 



42 THEDWARF. [sCENE V. 

Of hoarded hopes unsealed, — and the stern grasp 
Of fate forbids their utterance. But, ah, no ; 
In the cold chamber of the dead he sleeps 
His last, long, quiet sleep. 

MANUEL. 

This is too much. Oh ! would to Grod he did ; 
He lives, Eugenia — lives to love thee still ! 

EUGENIA. 

No ! No ! he cannot live — say not he lives, 
Or kill me w^ith the blow. 

MANUEL. 

Then let us die together — see him here ; 
The wrong'd, the exiled Manuel, is before thee I 

EUGENIA. 

Ob, God ! what horrid vision's this — art thou — 
Thou from the dead arisen 1 

MANUEL. 

Manuel hath known no tomb, 
Save in thy heart, Eugenia. 

EUGENIA. 

Thou stirr'st — dost move — art instinct then with life. 
'Tis he — oh misery ! misery ! 

{She falls senseless; Manuel receives Iter in liis arms.) 

MANUEL. 

Poor girl ! 'twere better thus that thou should'st sleep 
And wake no more, though thou hast foully wrong'd me — 



SCENE v.] THE DWARF. 43 

Though thou hast crushed my heart, and sham'd my soul — 
I would not wish thee ill. 

EUGENIA. 

Where am I ? ah, thou, Manuel, knowst it well ; 

we must part — on every moment hangs 
Guilt, and perhaps death — I am another's now. 

MANUEL. 

One word, Eugenia — I will not upbraid thee ; 
The calm cold grave will soon be sweeter to me 
Than life with all its toys — wilt thou not then 
Remember me 1 

EUGENIA, 

Cruel ! thou 'It madden me. O, Manuel, 

1 beseech thee by that love which cannot die — 
By all which once made earth seem light as air — 
By vows which we have breathed together, and 
By all that makes life happy, virtuous — 

If thou didst ever love me — now — this moment — 
I do adjure thee leave me. 

MANUEL. 

But one short moment ; 
It is the last that we shall spend together, 
Ere the black curtains of our coming fate 
Shall close upon the picture ! Was it well. 
Thus faithlessly to deal with me 1 Thou knowst, 
To shield thee with this arm, to watch by thee. 
To hear thy voice, sometimes to see thee smile, 
Was all my wild ambition coveted. 
Thou knowst my bitter sorrows, and my shame. 



44 T H E D W A R P . [scene V. 

Thou dost not know — O! tliou canst never know — 

How thy remembrance was my joy, my hope ; 

How in the lingering hours I built in fancy 

The temple of my future joys, to make 

The past a thought to smile at ; — 'twas a dream ; 

I woke, and found it dashed to fragments round me. 



O, this is cruel ; didst thou know my tale, 
Thou wouldst forgive me. 

MANUEL. 

Forgive thee ! If my tongue could say the word. 
The swelling throbs of my now broken heart, 
The memories of all my perished joys. 
The spectres of departed hope that made 
The sunlight of existence — all would rise 
With one fell voice to curse — no, not to curse thee ; 
I could not curse thee, though I died, Eugenia. 

EUGENIA. 

We must not meet again. 

MANUEL. 

Thou'rt right — we shall not meet again. Yet think, 
If thou dost ever think, how thou hast wronged me ; 
And when my destiny is ended — when 
The cold stars look upon my narrow grave, 
The last, long resting place of man ! — Remember, 
He, thou didst wrong the most, he did forgive thee 1 

EUGENIA. 

Forgive me — no — thy curses I can bear — 



SCENE v.] T II E D W A R F. 45 

Thy taunts — thy bold reproaches, — though they eat 
Like fire into my soul ; call me deceitful ! 
False ! faithless ! all that guilt can paint to thee — 
'Twill rive the heart, 'twill burn it ; but that thought, 
Forgiveness — O 'twould melt it into shame. 

MANUEL. 

I do ! I do forgive thee from my soul ; 
And in thy lonely hours, think ! think ! Eugenia, 
My vengeance was forgiveness. 

{Savclli, without, calls Eugenia.) 

EUGENIA. 

I must not here remain — that voice — 

MANUEL. 

But one word more — 

EUGENIA. 

Not one — {struggling) — madman, thou'rt lost ? 
SAVELLi. (rushing in.) 

Villain, thy swoi'd ; if thou dost wear a sword, 
Defend the craven heart that would destroy 
The honor of a senator. 

MANUEL. 

A senator 1 a dog ! 

SAVELLI. 

Art thou so lost to shame — wilt draw ? 

MANUEL. 

I prythce hold thee off — I am a man 
So lost to hope, I care not what I do, 



46 THEDAVARF. [SCENE VI. 

SAVELLI. 

Thou art a villain. 

MANUEL. 

Ha! 

( They figlit ; Savelli falls. Manuel is about to slay 
Mm, when Eugenia rushes hctiocen them.) 

EUGENIA. 

My husband % Save him ! Save him ! 

MANUEL. 

Thy husband ! it is indeed a spell to bid 
My sword grow^^ powerless ; for thy sake, I spare him. 
There is thy sword. And now, Eugenia ! now 
Farewell ! God bless thee ! and farewell for ever. 

{Exit. 



SCENE VI. 
\A Puhlic place in Venice. Vieto of the Ziion^s Mouth.] 
BARTHOLO. (Enters loith a paper.) 
Here's this shall make them sure ; the secret council 
Have time, place, object — all is in their power. 
Yet, will the memory of this wretched deed 
Give me one hour of peace % or kill the blight 
That hangs upon my spirit — ease the load 
That presses on my thought — bring back the time 
When, unpolluted in my heart, I've sought 
Companionship with nature's wildest scenes % 
For the soul longs to find one kindred heart 



SCENE Vr. I T n E D W A R F . 47 

Wherein to pour its sorrows, and my friends 

Were mountains, hills, and dales, and valleys, which 

No human hand had planted — thei'e they were 

As brilliant and as bright as that first morn, 

When from the dimness of unpeopled chaos 

They sprang into existence. There, in communion, 

I 've traced the dear remembrances of childhood, 

Those gladsome hours of quietude and peace, 

When my untroubled spirit loved to roam 

O'er fields and dales, and in luxurious play. 

Basked in the sunbeam's laughing smile — but they 

Are past. And ye, ye orbs in azure set. 

Star spangled banner of the deep blue sky. 

Have ye not kingdom's boundless a» yourselves ; 

Have ye no sanctuary for the heart, 

That sighs for some bright resting place to lay 

Its sorrows down ? — The world is open for me, 

To linger on the peaked crags, and roam 

On the indented beach, where snow crowned waves 

Sing everlasting mifsic ; and amid 

The Island homes that gem her ocean wave. 

What ! though no spirit with a kindred fire 

Companions with me, — what though no one voice 

Speaks comfort to me ; — though I am alone — 

Still let me be alone — the self accursed. 

Yet why delay 1 to-night — they're prisoners all ; 

And Beatrice believes herself deceived. 

I'll seek her — she shall hear the love that's borne 

Her by the wretched Hunchback — she shall swear 

Faith to me, or together both shall perish. 

[Bartholo drops tlic iHipcr in the Lion^s mouth, and exits.) 



48 THE DWARF. [SCENE VII, 

SCENE VII. 

[A Room. Conspirators, with Paoli and Bertrand.] 

BERTRAND. 

Where tarries Manuel 1 now 'tis past the hour — 
He cannot have forgotten, 

PAOLI. 

These tardy movements will spoil all — but hark ! 
He comes. 

{As Manuel enters.) 

ALL. 

Welcome ! Welcome ! 

MANUEL, 

Most welcome, friends — are ye all here ? — for now 
A city's fate hangs on each passing moment. 
Children of the Venetian — ye are shamed ; 
Your mourning hearts attest it ; w^iile ye wear 
The name of freedom — ye are slaves — ay, slaves 
To this most secret senate. Let them not 
Believe that they have power in secret, used 
To draw the life blood from your hearts, to bind 
Strong chains around you, and though innocent 
Condemn you to the solitude of cells 
Where light is known as a forbidden guest. 
The sighs and groans which yonder vaults send forth, 
Call on you for revenge ; the sleeping dead. 
Who nobly fought for liberty and life, 
Speak to you from their hollow tombs, and ask 



SCENE VII.] THEDWARP. 49 

An answer in your echo. Shall they not 

Be answered ? breathe they not the shame which hangs 

In gloomy clouds o'er Venice even now ; 

The tones of Faliero's curse is shrieked 

By warning spirits o'er the doomed one — 

The lost ! the feeble Venice ! Who hath made 

Her such 1 Your senators. Venetians ! Justice 

Is fair — 'tis honorable, open — fears not scrutiny — 

It is the Eternal's attribute ; but here 

Your Senate meet in secret — count in secret 

Their victims ; — more — they stab in secret too, 

And deem that rank should shield them from the power, 

That awful power, which heard above the I'oar 

Of factions fleeting breath, hath pierced the walls 

Of palaces, and made the tyrant's lip 

Quiver ; his face grow pale ; his limbs to shake, 

And feel how weak he is. The people's voice ! 

And ye, ye men of Venice — ye yourselves 

Are guilty ! if ye bear this outrage. Let us 

Cry loudly for our rights, strike for our wrongs, 

And trample tyranny beneath our feet. 

Will ye do this ? 

ALL. 

We will! We will! 

MANUEL. 

But, remember, let not little things. 
Which only vex the soul, as passing guests 
Of the night breeze ruffle the river's breast. 
And fades, leaving no traces in its soft 
And glassy stillness — let not trifles teach 
5 



50 THEDWAKF. [sCENE Vll. 

Your souls to join our cause. For our task, 
We need a firm resolve, — a steady hand, — 
A heart firm fixed, — a will made up — to die, 
Or win the freedom that we seek for; and 
The wrongs we've borne — the systematic shame 
Heaped on us by these secret senators — 
Will clothe our souls in fearful adamant, 
And plant resistless power upon our swords. 

PAOLI. 

We are resolved — to strike ! 

BERTRAND. 

Strike, and spare not ! 

MANUEL. 



Then swear it ! 
We swear ! 



ALL. 



Ye awful forms, if forms ye bear, who kept 
Your watch in heaven, before this infant world, 
With all its sparkling beauty, burst upon 
The realms of space — ye, whose all seeing eyes 
Do guard o'er virtue, or can punish vice ; 
Thou, from whose hand the precious gift we crave, 
Of liberty, was first received, who read'st the heart, 
Receive the oath, and register it on high. 

BERTRAND. 

When shall we meet "? 



SCENE VII.] T H E D W A R F . 51 



At break of morn — there must be no delay. 
Think of your wrongs, and strike ; strike firmly, strongly, 
As their hix'ed bravos would have struck at you, 
Had they so deemed it fitting ; and remember, 
He who shrinks back, draws down upon his head 
The shame of ages — for we strike for those 
Who, yet unborn, shall live to bless or curse us. 

BERTH AND. 

To-morrow, then, we meet. 

MANUEL. 

To-morrow ! until then 
I '11 feed myself with thoughts of vengeance ! Ha ! 

fAs Mamcel throws open the doors, the familiars of the 
inquisition appear without.) 

Betrayed ! Trust not their treacherous offers, men ; 
Draw on them — hew them down ; 

PAOLt, 

It is in vain, their numbers are too great. 

MANUEL. 

But they are hirelings. Prithee, leave my arraj 
I am so maddened with excess of wo, 
I care not if I fall. 

BERTRAND. 

Live, Manuel ! live ! there yet may be a time 
To deal upon their masters. 



52 THEDWARF. [SCENE VII. 

MANUEL.' 

True — True. — Wbat would you 1 

GIULO. 

Count Manuel, sometimes called Henrici, we 
Arrest thee in the Senate's name, uj)on 
The charsre of treason 



Treason ! and do they dare 1 
I had forgot — 1 am your prisoner, sir. 



Count Paoli, a noble of the state, 
With Bertrand Pierre, are summoned by the Senate 
To appear before them, on the pain of death. 



Whence sro we 1 to the Senate 1 

o 

GIULO. 

Thy sword. 

MANUEL. 

Nay ! spare me that — although I will not wear it. 
A word apart — Bertrand, to thee I give 
My anciedit servant ; with this sword, my father 
Won glory to his name and to his blood — 
The hcnor of a warrior. I had thought, 
If I had died in my long exile, 'twould 
Have fallen a prey to mean cupidity. 
Not buried as it should be with me. Take it — 
It is the last thing I have ^'f' to lell thee — 



SCENE VIII. 



THEDWARF. 53 



The friendship I have cherished for thee — Take it, 
And wear it for my sake. Now, then, lead on. 
And let us to the Senate. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE VIII. 
[A Room. Beatrice and BartJiolo watcJdng.] 

BEATRICE. 

'Tis strange ! he hath not yet returned. 

BARTHOLO. 

'Tis strange ! — Lady ! I've somewhat to impart 
Requires thy secret ear. Are we alone 1 

BEATRICE. 

Alone ! what Avould'st thou ] 

BARTHOLO.' 

May I not lock the door for safety. Lady 1 

BEATRICE. 

E'en as thou wilt ; thou ever wear'st a mask 
Of mystery in thy proceedings, dwarf. 

BARTHOLO, 

It doth require it, Lady. Paoli 

BEATRICE. 

Ay ! what of him 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Is prisoner to the State. 



54 THE DWARF. [sCENE VIII. 

BEATRICE. 

The State — what idle tale is this 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Alas, it is too true ; their secret spies 
Have tracked him in his treason — even now 
He lies at their own mercy. 

BEATRICE. 

What strange mysterious fancy's this. Dost thou, 
Dars't thou lie to me 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Have I not ever told thee truly, Lady 1 

BEATRICE. 

I dare not but believe thee ; is there then 
No way to save him 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Save him ? and would'st thou save him, lady ? 

BEATRICE. 

Save him ? ay, with my life ! 

BARTHOLO. 

Yes — yes, there is a way ! but first thou'lt listen 
To my unfinished tale, and when 'tis done, 
I'll point the way. Thou dost remember. Lady, 
How I had wandered from my early home. 

BEATRICE. 

I do! I do! 



SCENE Vin.] T a E D W A R F. 55 

BARTHOLO. 

Then I fled again ; 
I would not dwell in cities ; and the plains, 
The forests, and the mountains, and the seas. 
Spake with one voice, one heart, one tongue, to me ; 
The evening breeze that f.inn'd the ruffled leaves, 
Sighs peace to the torn bosom — and the wave. 
The sounding wave of ocean, breathes a strain 
Of matchless music. Even then I felt 
The awfid grandeur of the pealing voice 
Of the deep thunder, or the unstayed rush 
Of the swift cataract, which pouiii it stream 
Headlong to boiling depths, and in the shock 
Of earthquake's hidden power, or in the rush 
Of the stern desert blast 

BEATRICE. 

Perhaps he stands before the Senate now. 

BARTHOLO. 

My tale is almost done ; amid it all, 
I dared do that, which all of human kind 
Are free to — love. I felt there was no hope ; 
But the mad thought played with my brain, till I 
Resols'ed to win the love I sought, or die. 
Lady ! 'tis thee T love — stai't not — I love thee, 
Mox'e than aught mortal else could do. 

BEATRICE. 

Thou 1 monster ! 

BARTHOLO. 

Ay ; mock me as thou wilt — tread on me — make mc 



56 T II E D W A R F . [scene VIII. 

The slave of your vindictive passions — wring 
My soul with agony ; thou canst not wring 
From out it what I feel. 

BEATRICE. 

And didst thou dare to hope 1 

BARTHOLO. 

Hope I had not — it was despair that drove 
Me on to the disclosure ; for that love, 
That fell despair, I've woven out the web 
That must ensnare my soul. I watched Paoli — 
'Tis now too late to save him. Oh, I knew 
That he was true to thee ; the sight we saw 
In yonder church, was Paoli in treaty 
With the old jailor's daughter for an entrance 
Into the doge's palace. I inform'd 
The Senate of his treason. I condemned 
The Count, and now he suffers for his treason. 
All this I did, because I loved thee. Lady. 

BEATRICE. 

Inhuman fiend ! What, ho ! 

BARTHOLO. 

I have sworn we pass not out 
Through yonder doors, a living pair, or else 
With plighted love. 

BEATRICE. 

Villain — and dost thou dare ] what, ho ! without there. 

BARTHOLO. 

They come — one moment ends the scene — 



i 



SCENE Vlir.] THE DWARF. 57 

Thy love or life 'i 

(Bartholo draws his dagger.) 

PAOI.I. (^vilJiout.J 

What, ho ! within there, ho ! 

BARTHOLO. 

A moment now decides it ! 

BEATRICE. 

Monster ! T do defy thee ; 
Nay, stay thy passage. He hath sold thee, Paoli, 
Betrayed thee to the Senate ; hath confessed. 

(During this speccJi, Paoli has hurst open the door, seizes 
the dagger from Bartholo, and stahs him.) 

PAOLI. 

Ho ! dog ! I would crush thee with my foot, 
And tread thy life out ; better wen; it that 
Thou had'st ne'er been horn, than trifle with my rage. 
Thou didst betray us, hunchback, devil ! 

BARTHOLO. 

My destiny is ended. I may die, 
Yet will I die revenged. 
(He rushes toivards Beatrice ; Paoli stabs him, and he 

falls: — dying,) 
A bll;^ht be on your loves — a curse — the curse 
Of blood — the hunchback's spirit haunt ye ever 
In moments of your pleasure — O may then 
The dwarf's curse echo round you — to — to — O ! 

{Dies.) 



58 THE DWARF. [SCENEIX. 

PAOLi, {noticing the Page's dress.) 
My Beatrice, what means this strange attire ? 

BEATRICE, 

O, I have been the sorry dupe and tool 
Of yonder breathless villain — deemed thee false. 
His own confession hath proclaimed thee true ! 
I shudder to behold the monster's corse. 
Let us away ! and I will tell thee all. 

[Exeunt. 



SCENE IX. 

[ The Secret Tribunal. Inquisitors, Familiars, Sfc. Se- 
nators, Carvalaja, Giacomo, Secretary, SfC. Pietro.] 

GIACOMO. 

We dare not with such shallow proof condemn 
The Signors Bertrand or Paoli — let the eye, 
The sharp eye of the Senate, be upon them, 
And secret means, if needful, yet may crush 
The rising rebels. 

PIETRO. 

But — the prisoner Manuel ; Saint Mark 
Requires his death — he liath returned from exile 
Unpardoned by the State ; that is enough 
To justify our sentence. What say you? 

CARVALAJA. 

Let him be brought before us — let us hear 
His tale from his own lips. 



SCENE IX.J THE DWARF. 59 

SECRETARY. 

Bring in the prisoner. 

{^Manuel is hrovglit in, gttarded and chained.) 

MANUEL. 

Ye shrouded ministers of guilt and death, 
Why am I here ? 

SECRETARY. 

Count Manuel, sometimes called Henrici, charged 
With treason to the State, return from exile 



Ye are my judges — well ye hide your faces, 
Or shame would cover ye to look upon 
Your victim ! — these thin limbs, worn down by grief 
And sorrow, and these sunken eyes, attest 
Your sentence. 1 was exiled — ye did think 
To kill me with the shame ye heaped upon me. 

PIETRO. 

Dost own thy guilt. 

MANUEL. 

My guilt ! to whom ] to you — ye secret priests 
Of hell's dark altars ? — this much will I own. 
And own it nobly — had I lived till dawn. 
This hand, this pinioned hand, had shed the blood 
Of many of your Senate. 

GIACOMO. 

Judges, ye hear he doth confess his treason. 



60 THE DWARF, [sCENE IX. 

MANUEL. 

Treason ! thou hoary dotard, thank thy fate 
That thou art distant from me — wer't thou near, 
I'd brain thee with these hard and galling fetters. 

SECRETARY. 

Hast thou aught more to say upon thy crime 1 

MANUEL. 

My crime ! — yet had I lived to do it, 
It were a crown of glory on my brow, 
From which your bribed and shielded judges dare 
Not pluck one ray of brightness : but one word — 
It is of warning — do not, dare not think, 
Your power shall last — it is an idle dream — 
Even the mountain tide, and the wild ocean. 
Whose yet unfathomed and unmeasured wave 
Rolls in its sporting fury, torn and tost 
By some wild spirit of the storm, even that 
Finds, on some far off and unmeasured track, 
Some beetling rock against whose craggy base 
It beats in vain, or some huge mountain hold 
That caverns up its waters — and the sky. 
The deep blue sky, sinks mingling into ocean. 
All things around ye find a termination : 
And dare ye think that ye shall stand secure, 
When all is wrath around you. 

GIACOMO. 

Pi'isoner, we stay not here to hear thy treason. 

MANUEL. 

But one word more. There are a thousand hearts, 



'^ 



SCENE X.] THE DWARF, 61 

Aye, thousands in this city, that shall rise 
To crush you. Do not think the echoing voice 
Of you slain doges, and your murdered victims, 
Are silent. Senators ! they wait around 

(Bell tolls.) 

To curse you. Ha ! I need not ask my sentence, 
'Tis there proclaimed — there in that solemn sound; 
'Tis registered in hlood. I trcmhle not, 
I meet my doom unmoved — lead on — farewell. 



SCENE X. 

[A Scaffold. Executioner, Sfc, Headsman — ^rocess/ow, 

Guards, Senators.] 

[Manuel, guarded, ascends the platforvi.] 

MANUEL, (to scjiators.) 

I speak no more to you. Venetians ! hear me. 
My countrymen ! behold this mournful sight; 
Yet with a heart as buoyant as the lark 
Bears 'neath her feathered bosom, as she soars 
Through the blue sky of beauty — even so 
Do I meet death, most undeserved, and shameful. 
Ye will revenge it, as ye must revenge 
The streams of blood which your unholy State 
Hath stained your names with ! That eternal God, 
Who brooks not man's injustice, and where crime 
Knows no excuse ; before whose throne, ere long, 
This disenchanted spirit shall appeal 
For jud*ftent on you. These your senators. 



62 THEDWARF. [scene X. 

(Their instruments I note not) charge me as 
A traitor to my country. If it were 
A traitorous deed, for wrongs to give revenge, 
I am a traitor. If, indeed, it were 
A traitorous deed to kill, I am a traitor. 
I would have slain, struck firmly, homeward, nobly, 
To every tyrant bosom, for my country. 
I am a soldier, and I cannot brook 
To die, as common felon's die — beneath 
Their sentence. Senators ! dying, I warn ye, 
My blood be on you — all the wrongs of life — 
The agonies of death — the curse of him 
Who dies a Patriot's death. Ha! foil'd — Revenged — 

(falls.) 

Venice ! Ha ! 

{Dies.) 

( The people shout ; Paoli rushes in, and shudders as he 
looks on the lifeless hody of flannel.) 

PAOLl. 

His race is ended, ere a word of peace 
Had bid his spirit rest in hope. — Farewell. 

( The people shont as tht curtain falls.) 



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